


with every broken bone

by weatheredlaw



Series: from this galaxy to the next [3]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mass Effect Fusion, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Mild Language, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-28 08:42:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13900416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatheredlaw/pseuds/weatheredlaw
Summary: Human sense of duty is different, because it’s turned inwards, on the self. Turian duty demands Wash succeed for all turians, and when he doesn’t --He may as well not come home.





	with every broken bone

**Author's Note:**

> look i wrote more of this! human spectres are a thing in this 'verse because idk why not. please enjoy!

York tries to tell him not to. Tries to tell him he’ll regret it as soon as he’s done it, but --

Wash needs to get away. He needs to get as far away from all this as he possibly can, and York going on and on about duty and responsibility doesn’t do much for him. Besides, he’s saying all the wrong things. He’s making Wash’s duty  _about Wash_ , which is a uniquely human thing.

“You’re only letting yourself down,” York says as Wash just continues cleaning out his locker, packing away his things in an anonymous black duffel while York prattles on about personal bests and owing things to yourself.

Wash knows who he’s letting down. He’s letting down his entire race, all of Palaven, the turian councilor, his entire family, every commanding officer he’s ever had -- human sense of duty is different, because it’s turned inwards, on the self. Turian duty demands Wash succeed for all turians, and when he doesn’t --

He may as well not come home.

 

* * *

 

Wash hands over everything that marks him as a Spectre, including the ceremonial removal of his right to do as he pleases wherever he pleases. It’s not as hard as he thought it might be, but having the turian councilor pull him aside after is a bit of a blow.

“You have so much  _potential_ , Wash.” He puts a hand on Wash’s elbow that is supposed to be comforting, but all it does is send Wash into a sort of tailspin of agreeable headnods and grunts of acknowledgment. The councilor has been away from home too long.

Not that Wash has done any better. And he doesn’t plan on going back to Palaven anytime soon. No, he’ll...get there later. As he leaves the turian councilor’s office he’s already planning where he might go, until the councilor says clearly, “You are always welcome to apply for Spectrehood again, Wash.”

Wash stops by the door and takes a breath. “Thank you, councilor.”

_But that won’t be necessary._

 

* * *

 

It’s his first day as a free man so -- he drinks.

There are only two decent bars on the Citadel, and Wash prefers Chora’s Den. There’s a turian there who makes a few decent dextro drinks, and when he spots Wash he nods in his direction and has something ready when Wash finds a seat at the bar.

“You look like hell, man.”

“Good to see you, too, Grif.”

It’s mid-afternoon on a  _Wednesday_ , so Wash doesn’t have to fight for Grif’s attention, but he doesn’t exactly want it either. Grif stands in his general vicinity for a bit, cleaning glasses and yelling at a wayward bachelorette party to get their shit together. He makes Wash another drink when the first one is down to the ice and sets it on the counter.

Grif says, “Fuck’s your deal today, man?” and finally invades Wash’s space.

Wash tosses back the drink and leans forward. “Gave up the--” He waves his hand vaguely. “Spectre stuff. Today.”

Grif pulls back. “Whoa. You can just...give that up?  _Man_ , do not tell my boyfriend that, he’ll absolutely shit himself.”

“Boyfriend?”

“C-Sec guy. Would  _kill_  to be a Spectre.”

Wash snorts. “He should apply.”

Grif laughs and shakes his head. “Nah, Simmons doesn’t have what it takes. Not,” he adds, “that he isn’t, like, very good at his job, or whatever. But you gotta, like, wanna kill dudes, right?”

“Killing dudes is not what being a Spectre is.”

Grif tips his head to the side. His face plates flair out a bit as he considers this. “Interesting.” He goes back to cleaning glasses. “So what’s next then?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well you’re not going  _home_.” Grif looks right at him. “You’re no better than me, now.”

“That’s not--”

“Quit your job, disappointed the councilor, disgraced your homeland--” Grif ticks them off. “Yeah, sounds like all the shit I did.”

“You weren’t a  _Spectre_ , you didn’t--”

“Hey.” Grif points, dish towel in his hand waving dramatically, but doing nothing to make him look more threatening. “You’re not the only person who had a shitty time in the military, asshole.” He looks back at the glass in his hand and wipes it down. “Don’t have to be a Spectre to see stuff you’d rather not,” he says.

Wash blinks. “Right,” he says. “I...sorry.”

“Whatever.” Grif puts the glass away and turns back to him. “Want another? They’re on the house, my boss isn’t here.”

Wash sighs. “Yeah,” he says. “Sure.”

 

* * *

 

He spends three weeks going between his apartment, the bar, and the gym. Grif’s starting to worry about him -- “There’s being the kind of shitty turian I am, and just...being depressed, man.” -- but Wash sort of likes his new routine. It’s been a long time since everything stayed the same.

Almost a month after giving up all his Spectre rights, Wash gets a message sent through his turian military account -- from a human colony. Valhalla. Wash doesn’t know a lot about human colonies. He’s worked on a few, worked pretty closely with Alliance, too. The message itself is nondescript, doesn’t tell him much other than to get in contact with the Alliance captain stationed there, that they might have some work for him.

Wash shoots back a quick response --  _I’m not a Spectre anymore. Contact Commander York or Carolina if you need assistance._

The reply is almost instantaneous.  _Dude, I was told to ask you for help. And this isn’t a Spectre issue. I heard you were freelancing._

“Freelancing…” Wash shakes his head. Someone obviously doesn’t understand. He puts his hands on the keys to respond, but another message comes through:  _Grif said you would be chill about this._

Wash scowls, faceplates flaring out. Fucking  _Grif._  Figured he’d stop being a lazy piece of shit long enough to make Wash’s life harder. He’s got no fucking problem doing  _that._

Wash sends Grif a message on his omnitool --  _I am not a mercenary._

Grif shoots back --  _No, you’re just a depressed guy with years of military experience and suppressed emotions. Tucker’s a good dude, just go and see what he needs._

“What he needs--” Wash sighs. Writes back to this Tucker guy --  _I’d have been more chill if he’d mentioned it to me, but okay. When should I be there?_

 _Fucking ASAP, dude_ , Tucker replies.

Wash shuts down his computer and groans, falling back onto his bed.

So much for routine.

 

* * *

 

Valhalla’s not a terrible place, really. It’s...kinda nice, actually. Gorgeous cliffs and water features, a pretty temperate climate. Little humid for Wash’s tastes. The Alliance colony itself is one of those prefab setups, but it’s clean and organized, which Wash admires. When he lands, there’s an Alliance soldier waiting for him, leaning against a stack of boxes and talking with a few of the guys working at the docking bay. He glances up as Wash steps off his transport ship, that same black duffel slung over his shoulder as he takes the place in.

“You Wash?” he calls.

“That’s me.”

“I’m Captain Tucker,” he says, and extends a hand. Wash shakes it and Tucker grins. “You’ve spent a lot of time with humans, huh?”

“More than is probably recommended.”

“Got it.” He turns and waves for Wash to follow. “Come on, I’ll show you what we’re working on.”

Wash jogs to catch up with him. “Sorry, I never got a chance to berate Grif for giving you my contact information. How do you two know one another?”

“Me and Grif? Our squads were teamed up during some interspecies training exercises a while back, then we were on the same squad during the last Batarian war. He was a POW for awhile, I led the team that busted him out.”

“...Right.” Wash had been a Spectre during the last Batarian war. Now Grif’s frustration makes more sense. “He say anything about me?”

“Just that you needed a change of scenery.” Tucker glances over at Wash. “He told me you gave up your Spectre rights, too, before you did. That’s heavy, man. Shouldn’t mention that to any of the Alliance guys here. Half of them would claw your fuckin’ eyes out for a chance to be a Spectre.”

“Yeah, I’ve gathered that over the years.”

Tucker laughs. “Hey, man, you made the choice.” He points across the colony. “I’ve got a team excavating over there, and they’ve got literally no fucking idea what protocol is. Grif said you had some experience with running military controlled digs.”

“I’ve managed a few.”

Tucker nods. “Mostly what I need you to do is keep them from killing each other, blowing up the artifacts, or, like. Defecting, I guess.” He glances at Wash. “It’s easy,” he says. “I mean, I can give you some tougher shit, but Grif made it seem like you...sort of needed a vacation. A working vacation,” Tucker adds. “But definitely some time off.”

They stop outside one of the little prefabs and Tucker punches in a code on the keypad by the door. That’s a red fucking flag, and Wash feels his entire body stiffen in response. Tucker notices, and says quickly, “I’ll show you how to change that,” as the door slides open.

Wash nods, tries to be cool about it, and follows Tucker into the prefab. It’s a nice little unit -- there’s a distinct sleeping area, and a little kitchen with a two person table crammed in the corner.

“It’s not much, I’m sure you’ve got, like, a really fancy place back on the Citadel.”

“No,” Wash says, and sets down his bag. “I don’t.” He looks around, makes a note to send Grif a begrudging thank you email. He turns to Tucker. “It’s great.”

 

* * *

 

Tucker is absolutely right about the guys on the dig site. They’re not interested in working at all, and they spend Wash’s first day shooting him dirty looks until he gets sick of it and makes them run sprints around the site until dinner. The next day they pick up their tools and start working, so Wash gets a cooler of beer from the Alliance mess hall and hands it out an hour before their shift ends and lets them go home early.

Tucker’s impressed, and he says so when Wash crashes in the mess at the end of the week. It’s the first time he’s seen Tucker since he got there. “Seriously. They’ve gotten more work done in three days than they have in three  _months._ ” He taps the neck of his beer against Wash’s. “Kudos, dude.” He takes a long drink before he asks, “You feeling any better?”

“How  _much_  did Grif tell you?”

“Just that you were depressed and you probably didn’t know it.”

Wash sighs. “Yeah. That...sounds about right.”

“No worries, I’ve been there. After I got home, it was--” The doors to the mess swing open, and a small horde of children pour into the room. Wash is surprised. He knew there were kids on the colony, obviously, but he’s spent most of his time with the guys on the dig site, he’s only seen a few in passing.

Tucker’s beaming, and suddenly there’s a little version of him launching himself at the table, crawling into Tucker’s lap and wrapping his arms around Tucker’s neck.

“Hey, bud!” He presses his nose to the top of the kid’s head. “Did you have a good day at school?” The kid leans back and begins signing at Tucker rapidly who sighs and talks to him, asking about his day and what he did and what he learned.

Tucker points. “This is my new friend,” he says. “This is Wash.” He turns to Wash. “This is Junior.”

Junior blinks at Wash, then turns back to Tucker and keeps signing.

“He’s a turian,” Tucker says. “Now  _say hi_.”

Junior looks at Wash and waves. Wash waves back.

Tucker nods. “Better,” he says, and pulls Junior in to kiss the top of his head.

 

* * *

 

_-Aren’t you glad I made your business my business? G._

_-yes fine i’m very glad you invaded my privacy. w._

_-Cool you can just owe me later. G._

 

* * *

 

Tucker’s son is eight, and Junior’s mom isn’t in the picture.

“She made the choice she needed to make, it wasn’t super dramatic. My mom’s kinda pissed I don’t leave him with her, but I like having him here. Space travel is good for you, builds character.” They’re spending their Sunday off inspecting the dig site while Junior runs ahead and clambers over boulders and dumps buckets of dirt into different holes. “He’s happy, so.”

Wash has gathered that Junior doesn’t say much, but he’s a nice kid and Tucker seems like a good dad. Today is the most peaceful day Wash has had in ages. Valhalla is a beautiful place, and the colony is so...quiet. It’s like everything has a careful, soft edge to it, and sometimes Wash worries he’s hallucinating it all. He’s done it before. He’s lost himself in a...a  _fantasy_. Tucker’s understanding, the way the sky on this colony is always blue -- he could imagine it being fake.

But he stumbles a bit on the way down from the dig site, and Tucker reaches out and grabs him to keep him from falling and Wash knows -- this is real.

All of this. It’s real.

 

* * *

 

Of course, all of it being real doesn’t change the fact that Wash is fucked up. All of it being real means Wash still goes days without sleep, or sits straight up in bed, grabbing for things that aren’t there, shouting names into the darkness of people he’ll never see again.

Sometimes he sees Maine in the corner of his room, but when he gets out of bed and goes to him there’s nothing but shadow. Sometimes on the dig site he pictures it all caving in around them, with him being the sole survivor. The guys will laugh too loud and Wash will jolt, or want to disappear.

Tucker approaches him carefully about it, suggesting gently he should talk with the Alliance therapist on the colony.

“I wasn’t sleeping when I got here, and they helped me out. I had to get better, you know? For Junior.”

Wash brushes him off. “There isn’t an issue, I’m fine.”

“Dude, you look exhausted.”

“I’m really okay, Tucker.”

Tucker raises his hands and takes an actual step back. “Alright. Whatever you say, man.” He turns and leaves Wash standing outside his prefab, fingers hovering over the keys. He needs to go inside, he needs to make dinner and shower and go to bed. These are  _easy_  things he should be able to just  _do._  He spent a month on the Citadel after giving up his Spectrehood doing all of these things.

Why is it suddenly so hard?

He turns and runs after Tucker, grabbing his shoulder. Tucker flinches, a reminder to Wash that he isn’t the only one who’s gone through some shit.

Wash asks, “What did you say to them?”

“To the shrink?” Wash nods. “I said I couldn’t sleep and whenever I could, I was waking my kid up because I was screaming. I almost sent him to my mom, and I didn’t want to do that.” Tucker pulls away from Wash’s grasp. “Look, if you don’t want to get help, that’s fine. It’s your life, dude. But if it helps, maybe you have to find something that pushes you. I wanted to keep my kid with me, so I took a chance.” He shrugs. “You just figure out what it is you want to keep. That’s what it takes.”

 

* * *

 

Wash wants to stay on Valhalla. He wants to keep climbing the hill to the dig site and having dinner with Tucker and Junior a few nights a week. He wants to stay around long enough to see the rainy season -- Tucker says it’s beautiful.

So he has one of Tucker’s men run up the hill and tell the guys at the dig site he’ll be late, and goes to see the Alliance shrink. Every instinct he has tells him not to. He’s a  _turian_ , he shouldn’t  _need this. But_ he goes, and he tells the shrink about the dreams and about leaving the Citadel. He tells her a little about his last mission, but she doesn’t push for details. She gives him something to help him sleep and Wash promises to come back.

It’s not...a  _fix_. But it’s a start.

 

* * *

 

And then Tucker  _apologizes_. Which is sort of weird.

“So I realized that, like, turians probably aren’t big on...therapy. Are they?”

“Not exactly. But it’s okay,” he says quickly. “I...went.”

“Yeah?” Tucker’s expression brightens. “How was it?”

“Terrible. I hate talking. About stuff. With...people.”

Tucker laughs. “Yeah, that’s...actually relatable.”

Wash feels his faceplates flex happily. It’s...nice. Nicer than he’d imagine, being understood. He owes Grif more than one apology now.

He was trying from the very beginning.

 

* * *

 

They need to finish the dig before the rains come, so Wash has the guys pull an extra couple Sunday shifts with the promise of beer at the end. They finish an entire two weeks ahead of schedule, and Tucker is impressed.

“I...really owe you. Seriously, getting this done was so freaking impossible.” He rubs the back of his neck. “You should come by my place tonight, me and Junior can fix you dinner.”

Wash agrees, swinging by the mess for a couple of beers for Tucker and some dextro friendly booze of his own before knocking on Tucker’s door at seven.

Junior answers, and immediately reaches for Wash’s hand and pulls him inside. He doesn’t let go, once they’re in, turning the hand over and inspecting Wash’s fingers. He holds up three of his own, and Wash nods.

“Yep. Three fingers.”

“ _Junior_. You can’t do that.” Tucker peaks around the corner from the kitchen. “Did you  _ask?_ ”

Junior just shrugs and continues his thorough inspection of Wash’s hand and arm, before pulling him to the table and forcing him to sit.

“There aren’t any aliens in his class. We have a handful working on the colony, but he’s never really gotten to meet them. You’re...kind of his first.”

“How long have you two been here?”

“Five years,” Tucker says, taking the beer and putting it in the fridge.

Junior reaches out and presses his fingers against Wash’s jaw, giggling when Wash forces his faceplates to flare out. “You like that?” Junior nods. Wash does it again.

After a few minutes, Junior gets bored and goes into the living room to color.

“Okay, so I remembered  _almost_  too late that you have to eat, like, special food, so I hope I did this right.”

“If my throat closes up, we’ll know you didn’t,” Wash says coolly.

“Ha fuckin’  _ha._ ” Tucker turns and calls Junior to the table.

Junior starts yawning as he’s scraping his plate clean, so Tucker excuses himself and carries his son to his room as Wash clears the plates from the table. It’s a quiet fifteen minutes before he hears the door to Junior’s room shut and Tucker pad into the kitchen.

“Thanks for dinner,” Wash says.

Tucker nods. “Just glad I didn’t kill you.”

“I’m also relieved.” He nudges Tucker with his shoulder, partly by accident and partly...not.

Wash is surprised when Tucker nudges back. He’s been on Valhalla for four months -- he shouldn't be surprised that Tucker’s become a friend, of sorts. That they can be comfortable with one another.

And he’s not, really. He’s just surprised that there’s contact and that...he likes it.

Wash...sort of wants more.

But Tucker is turning away and going to the fridge, pulling out the last of the drinks and gesturing for Wash to follow him outside.

“How come you get a patio?” Wash asks, taking his drink and settling into an uncomfortable deck chair.

“Captain, man. Special privileges.” Tucker pops the cap off his bottle and takes a long drink. “All the family units are bigger. You got what we call  _party of one._ ”

“Wonderful.”

Tucker laughs. “Hey, it beats the Citadel, I’ll bet.” He props his feet on the deck railing. “I was there, before I had Junior. I don’t know how anyone lives there. Out here, you know. It’s just--” He gestures with his bottle. “Open.”

“I do like it here.”

“Different from Palaven, too.” Tucker takes a drink. “I was there, a while back. Not sure how you guys survive it.”

“It’s a dry heat,” Wash drawls, and Tucker snorts, beer coming out of his nose. “You think  _that’s_  funny.”

“I’m sorry,” Tucker says. “It’s just I had to spend every waking minute on that planet with a fucking envirosuit on so my skin didn’t burn off.”

Wash reaches out without thinking and taps the side of Tucker’s head. “No plates,” he says, and takes note that, this time -- Tucker doesn’t flinch.

“Yeah.” Tucker keeps his eye on Wash as he takes another drink. “We’re not all so lucky.”

“Well, it’s all crab meat underneath,” Wash mutters, and absently presses a finger to the soft flesh of his neck.

 

* * *

 

The rainy season comes, and Tucker is right. It is beautiful.

It’s also torrential. Any and all outdoor projects that were completed are shut down, and the mess hall is less crowded when Wash joins Tucker and Junior for dinner some nights.

Junior is signing hurriedly about school when Wash comes in one evening, and realizes he’s picking up a few of the gestures. He signs to Junior  _look at me_ , and Junior grins.

“He likes when people other than me can talk to him.”

“Maybe that’ll be my rainy season project.”

“Not a bad idea.” Tucker points to Junior’s plate. “ _Eat_ , bud.” He turns to Wash. “Haven’t had enough of us yet then?”

“I’m sure I’ll know when I have.”

Tucker laughs. “Well you’re welcome to stay as long as we’ve got room. Not too many people move here anymore. We’ve stabilized a lot over the last couple years, so there’ll be space for you for a while.” He shrugs. “I’m sure this is boring as hell compared to the stuff you’re used to doing.”

Wash looks into the dextro-friendly sort of meat mash and says nothing.

From the other side of the table, Tucker says quietly, “Sorry.”

“Hm?”

“You just...get like that. Whenever I bring up the Spectre stuff.”

“I don’t--”

“Yeah, you do.” Tucker shovels carrots into his mouth. He swallows. Wash watches the muscles of his throat work, and wonders what it’d be like to touch them. “S’not a big deal.”

“My friend died,” Wash says, without thinking.

Tucker looks up sharply, then at Junior. Junior is playing with a datapad, absentmindedly putting carrots into his mouth, chewing, and swallowing.

Wash says, “Sorry,” and gets up from the table.

“Dude--”

“I’m sorry,” he says again, and heads out of the mess.

 

* * *

 

It’s still raining in the morning. He gets up and goes through his routine like his therapist has suggested, goes through the mantra he’s made for himself.

_Some things are beyond your control._

_Some things you cannot help._

_Some things are simply not your fault._

Harder to say, today, but he does it.

Someone knocks on his door around eleven and Wash isn’t surprised that it’s Tucker. He’s not even surprised when Tucker maneuvers his way inside, arms crossed over his chest. Wash keeps forgetting that Tucker runs this colony, that every Alliance soldier on it answers to him.

Standing there, he reminds Wash of his turian CO’s, and Wash thinks Tucker might do better on Palaven than he thinks.

“Why did you come here?” Tucker asks. “Like, really.  _Why_  did you agree to this?”

“Change of scenery.”

“Bullshit.” Tucker points. “You’re running.”

“So what if I’m running? It’s not your business.”

“You’re on  _my colony. I'm_ making it my business.”

Wash scowls. “Why should you care?”

“I don’t know! Because I guess I sort of like you, and I enjoy your, like, general presence, or whatever.” Tucker scrubs a hand over his face. “ _Look._  You do not have to tell me  _what_  you’re running from, or even what happened. But nothing is ever going to get better for you if you just...hold everything at arm’s length.” Tucker steps forward. “You can’t hold  _recovery_  like that, or healing, man.”

“You sound ridiculous.”

“Maybe I do! But this fucking culture of repressing your shit until you die is garbage. I have a kid who knows I have issues. I have to show him how I’m making myself better.”

“I don’t  _have_  anyone to be better for!”

Tucker groans. “ _Yes you do!_ ”

“Don’t you fucking say--”

“Yourself,” Tucker says. “You get better for  _yourself._ ”

Wash huffs. “That’s such a fucking human concept.”

“So is therapy, apparently. But you did that.” Tucker steps closer now. Tentatively, he reaches out, puts a hand on Wash’s shoulder. “Wash--”

Without thinking, Wash reaches up to pull Tucker’s hand away, but Tucker twists in his grasp, and now they are both clutching the others wrist. Wash feels Tucker’s pulse thrum against his skin, and it makes him dizzy.

They pull each other closer in almost the same instant, and Tucker is right there, looking up at Wash while Wash tries to pretend this has been a strange accident. He could -- he could let go of Tucker’s arm and ask him to leave, but --

“I’ll say it,” Tucker says. “Since you’re bad at words.” He smiles. “You’re better than you think, and you don’t deserve to be punished the way you think you do.”

“That’s bullshit,” Wash mutters, and he wants to say more, but --

Tucker kisses him.

And when he pulls away, Wash must look a little flabbergasted, because Tucker laughs and pulls back, covering his face with his hands.

“Man, you guys are usually so hard to read, but you fucking look--”

Wash cuts him off. He’s wanted contact, he’s wanted  _this contact for_ weeks now, and Tucker is giving it, freely.

So Wash gives it back. Tucker doesn’t seem to mind.

 

* * *

 

“You’ve been with turians before.”

Tucker rolls from his back to his side, head propped in his hand. “I’d rather not say.”

“Was it Grif?”

“If it was, would that make you jealous?”

“...No. Not at all.”

“It so fucking would.” Tucker rolls to his back again and laughs, putting his hands behind his head. “It totally would.”

Wash scowls. “Jealousy is a non-issue here.”

Tucker glances over at him before reaching out and toying with the crest around Wash’s neck. “Yeah,” he says. “You’re jealous.” He pushes himself close and kisses the soft skin of Wash’s throat, other hand trailing down to slide between the plates of Wash’s chest, easing under and carefully brushing the flesh hidden underneath. “It might have been Grif.”

“Then you have shitty taste in turians. Including me.”

“Maybe I just like shitty turians. You ever think of that?”

Wash rolls to his side carefully, putting his hand on the back of Tucker’s head and drawing him in for another kiss.

“Doesn’t bother me much,” he says, as the rain continues to pour outside.

 

* * *

 

Tucker doesn’t push for the story, but eventually, Wash needs to tell it.

It isn’t a long one. It isn’t even particularly interesting.

Maine was just another Spectre, and he and Wash worked together often. The last time they did, Wash had to watch Maine die, and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

He replays it, sometimes, in slow motion. Other times it happens in real time, every second rushing past. The way he tells it to Tucker -- monotone, flat, dry -- it may as well have happened to someone else.

But it didn’t.

It happened to Wash.

“Wasn’t your fault,” Tucker says. “You understand that, right?”

“No. I don’t. I’ve never been able to understand that. I know objectively it wasn’t, but every bit of training I have tells me I could have done something. That it should have been me instead.”

“Bullshit.”

“Maybe,” Wash concedes. He and Tucker are stretched out in Wash’s bed, listening to the rain slap against the window. “I’m getting better, I guess. I’m learning.”

“That’s what matters then.” Tucker kisses the crown of Wash’s head. “That’s all that matters.”

 

* * *

 

He spends another month on Valhalla. It’s a comfortable month as the rains subside, and by the time they are gone, Wash knows what he has to do.

He says to Tucker, “I’m going back. I’m going to petition and reapply.”

Tucker doesn’t seem surprised. He smiles and nods. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

“It’s a human thing, I guess, but I feel like maybe I’m not quite done.”

“That’s good.” Tucker takes Wash’s hand in his. “That’s really good. We’ll miss you here.”

“I’ll miss you.” He kisses the top of Tucker’s head. “You did a lot for me.”

“Yeah.” Tucker grins. “I’m pretty fuckin’ awesome.”

“Don’t be a dick about it.”

“Just sayin’, I healed your sorry ass. With my--” Wash cuts him by touching his forehead to Tucker's. Of everything they've done it's...the most intimate. Tucker sighs. “Yeah, alright. Junior’s gonna be upset.”

“Saying goodbye builds character,” Wash teases. More seriously he says, “I’ll visit.”

“I’d fuckin’ hope so,” Tucker mutters, but he seems at peace with it all. “No more  _party of one_  for you, though. You visit, you’re staying with me.”

Wash laughs. “I can live with that,” he says.

And he knows -- above all else,  _in spite_  of anything else, that’s the truth.

He’s going to live.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr @ weatheredlaw
> 
> wash - turian  
> grif - turian  
> tucker - human  
> york - human  
> maine - ??


End file.
